Sterilizing

Ella Newton / V Mag at UVA

Janie has no way of knowing which boy is her son.

She eats away at her upper lip, asking Which one?

 When she lays awake at night, all she wants to do is run, 

And at each finger she starts to peel—

Peel— peel—

Each cuticle peels from her nail like a flopping dog tongue. 

I’m here, Mama, I love you so. 

Won’t you tuck me into bed?

I can’t, darling, I’m busy now.

Is that a blade beneath your head?

Shadows snag on her sheets; they slowly start to stretch.

Weeping at her window, there’s a widow and a wretch,

Or maybe it’s the casement of a sinewed sketch,

Like the kind she often scrawls—

Scrawls— scrawls—

A white-cloaked man drawls that it’s time for her to “stretch.”

Come back, baby, I miss you so.

Won’t you please turn out my light?

I can’t, Mama, they’re coming for you.

Would you please try not to fight?

Back, she spurs like an alley-cat, shrieking a curse to the floor,

With the white-cloaked man at her bedside, and a phantom at her door.

She says, I can’t remember what life I had before,

When a bruise blooms on her forearm,

A sweet-smelling bruise on her forearm,

And she lapped at the blood on her forearm, as she begged like a dog for more.

Clomp-clomp; clomp-clomp! Had they heard it? The footsteps ringing clear;

Clomp-clomp; clomp-clomp, in the distance? Are they deaf that they do not hear?

Down the shaft of hallway, over her window sill,

A stolen son comes crying—

Crying— crying—

At each floorboard he starts prying! She stands up, straight and still. 

Mama, what are you doing?

Mama, don’t hurt me, please.

There’s a crimson flood on my forehead,

And a trembling in my knees.

Her eyes bulge like ulcers; she scarce can find her voice;

When she slashes his heart on the floorboard,

Down like a dog on the floorboard,

And he sleeps in his blood on the floorboard— My darling, I had no choice. 

***

And still every night, when Janie lays awake, she asks for her son.

She pleads on her knees through the change of the trees, imploring, Which one?

I have to tuck him in, you see; I promise I won’t run.

But her fingers start to peel—

Peel— peel—

Her cuticles slowly congeal like sweaty dog tongues.